Love Is In The Air (I Think I'll Stay Inside)
by JustlikeWater
Summary: Dean can admit that he isn't the most 'emotionally fluent' person, and he's well aware that things are a little complicated with Cas, but at this point in his life, he's content to cram it all away and ignore it. However, after pissing off the Goddess of Love herself, Dean gets a push in the 'right direction' and life as he knows it changes in the most unexpected, wonderful ways.
1. Nice Boys Don't Kiss and Tell

**A/N: Hey guys! This plot bunny simply refused to leave me alone, so I was eventually forced to put it on paper. Not that I'm complaining: writing destiel is always a pleasure :)**

**Side note: This fic doesn't occur along any particular timeline; just know that Cas is here (so season four and onward). Also, there will be no mention of soulless!Sam, purgatory, God!Cas, or any other angsty crap the writers threw our way. I like to think that this story exists in its own pocket of time, separate from the canonical sequence of events. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Throughout the endless, bat shit-crazy road trip Dean has come to call his life, he has understandably experienced his fair share of surprises. He's encountered heartsick ghosts, friendly vampires, bitchy angels, and, on one memorable occasion, even had the misfortune of stumbling in on his brother going at it with a witch (she was hot, but <em>still<em>. C'mon Sammy).

But out of all that bizarre nonsense, the biggest surprise Dean encounters—the shock to end all others—is when he discovers that Venus, goddess of love, beauty, and all things feminine, is _ugly as freaking hell._ This discovery happens to be the first odd event in a _series_ of odd events that end up altering his life irrevocably; this encounter serves as a catalyst to the horrible spiral of weird moments and even weirder revelations that quickly follow.

In short, Venus screws his life up _big time._

* * *

><p>Like most shitty things in Dean's life, it starts with a salad.<p>

Specifically, Sam's salad from the granola-hippy eatery that he spotted from the road, and that Dean had been too absent-minded to notice and speed past. (Damn his tendency to get lost in his ACDC cassettes)

Initially, Dean's answer was a definite _no_, but then Sam argued that Dean had spent the whole ride complaining he was hungry anyway, so they might as well stop and get a quick bite, right? Then he'd drawn his brows upward and made his eyes look like the saddest fucking things Dean had ever seen, and in no time at all Dean folded like a freaking playing card, and found himself pulling into the parking lot of "Zen Choices" with Sam bouncing in the passenger's seat like a five year old at the circus.

Fifteen minutes and countless lungfuls of patchouli later, Dean is sitting across from a man he can only refer to as _Samantha_, being that said girl-sasquatch-health nut is currently ordering the frilliest salad on the freaking planet. Dean—for the sake of whatever shred of respect he still has for Sam—detaches himself from the situation and disappears behind the handwritten menu. Still, he manages to snag a few key phrases, like 'lavender accents', 'sprinkled with pomegranate seeds' and 'light vinaigrette drizzle'.

At this rate, the only question is whether they'll go dress shopping or shoe shopping after this.

Then, the mellow-eyed blonde dude who Dean is _positive_ has been smoking something in the backroom, turns to him with his little recycled-paper notepad and mini golf pencil. "And what can I get you, brother?" Oh yeah, and apparently the entire staff refers to everyone as brother or sister, because, _'here at Zen Choices, we're family'._

Dean blandly asks if they have anything with meat—he's pretty sure they don't, but hey it doesn't hurt to ask, right?—and instead of calmly replying 'no, sorry sir we don't', the dude gasps in horror as if Dean just requested a human foot as his main course. He ducks down and puts his mouth _thisfuckingclose_ to Dean's right ear—his body shamelessly breaching Dean's fairly small personal space bubble—and lowly says, "Brother, we do not use that word here." At Dean's blank expression, he clarifies, "The M-word. You see, we serve only fruit, vegetable, and grain-based dishes. Never…never m-things"

Dean is in the midst of deciding whether or not it'd be worth it to bodily remove the guy from his vicinity—because apparently he doesn't believe in meat _or_ deodorant—when the dude suddenly straightens back up and regains his mellow disposition, apparently convinced Dean has learned his lesson. Recomposed, he says, "However, I _can_ offer you a delicious selection of organic dishes, such as our okra-tofurkey sandwich slam. It's a customer favorite, actually."

"_Tofurkey?"_

"Tofu-turkey," Sam says helpfully, as he takes a sip of his jasmine-enhanced spring water.

"Uh, _no,"_ Dean replies succinctly. "I guess I'll take the most filling thing on the menu and a tall coke."

"Sorry, brother, we do not carry—"

Right, of course they don't. Though, Dean supposes he should consider himself lucky that the guy didn't think the mention of soda was offensive enough to reprimand; he isn't too eager to have Mr. Peace and Love in his personal space again anytime soon. "Fine, what do you carry?"

"Well, we have refreshing lemon-enhanced sparkling water, rose and jasmine infused iced teas, a range of citrus beverages, and spring water."

"I'll take the lemon sparkling thing." That's basically just fizzy lemonade, right? Pretty hard to screw that up, even here.

After a serene nod, the waiter floats back into the kitchen, humming something by the Beatles under his breath. Once he's gone, Dean turns to Sam in deadpan. "Alright, Sammy, why the hell are we here?"

"For lu—"

"Don't you dare call this rabbit food 'lunch', first of all," Dean snaps. "And second of all, you know what I mean. We're not really here for the girly salads and the lavender incense, are we."

Sam, although master of the bitch face and sad puppy-dog expression, is the worst freaking liar on the planet—when it comes to Dean anyway—and it takes Dean less than three seconds to recognize Sam's 'I'm totally not telling the truth' face. The shifty eyes and guilty upturn of Sam's eyebrows are confirmation enough.

Sourly, Dean asks, "Alright, what's the case, Sam?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dean," Sam replies, with an expression that loudly reads _'I definitely know what you're talking about, Dean'. _

Dean takes a handful of complimentary banana chips out of the basket and crams them angrily into his mouth. "I don't feel like playing games right now, man," he grouses, around the mouthful of dehydrated fruit. "Just tell me why we're here and I'll shut up."

Sam sighs in resignation and leans in, dropping his voice in order to eradicate the threat of eavesdroppers. "I saw a newspaper clipping a few towns back, alright? Something about a bunch of random girls disappearing around here, no connections or patterns other than the fact that they're always female. Yesterday it was an eighteen year old from the local high school, three days before it was a college intern, and two days before_ that_ it was the checkout girl at Whole Foods."

"And why didn't you tell me we were here on a case?"

Sam fidgets and suddenly finds the blue tablecloth fascinating. "It's just… man, you've been weird lately, alright? Ever since…" Sam stops, thinks better of it. "Uh, you know what? Never mind, it isn't important. The point is—"

"Whoa," Dean halts, interrupting Sam. "Ever since _what_, man?"

Sam looks conflicted for a moment, caught between the urge to tell the truth and the desire to censor himself. Finally, Dean's hard stare gets the best of him, and he blurts out, "Ever since Cas stopped showing up all the time, man! You get—I don't know, Dean—you get _not good_ whenever Cas isn't around every now and then. You stop sleeping right, you snap at me every chance you get, and you're just generally unpleasant as hell!"

Dean's mouth actually drops open at that, because, seriously_: where the hell is this coming from?_ He is not miserable just because Cas isn't here, alright? And, okay, _maybe_ it's harder to sleep at night because he's sort of worried about the angel's well-being (damn guy never bothers to check in, so how's Dean supposed to catch some Z's without knowing for sure that he's safe?) but it isn't as if he's losing his mind over it, or anything. And, yeah, the lack of sleep and constant worry do make him a little snappish, and since he sees Sam 24/7, he's bound to take the brunt of it, but that doesn't mean that Cas's absence is effecting his emotional state!

And, alright, _yes_, he prays to the angel almost religiously (ha), but that doesn't mean shit. Okay?!

Dean takes a few deep, calming breaths and then sagely replies, "I don't know what you're talking about, Sam."

"Really." Sam deadpans. "So you're going to tell me you_ don't_ pray to Cas every night? And ask him to stop by all the time?"

Well, shit.

"Thin walls," Sam explains drily. Then he sighs. "Listen, man, I don't know what's between you two, but the fact that he's not here is making you miserable."

Dean clenches his jaw so hard that he can hear his molars grinding. "Shut up, Sam."

But Sam's face only gets softer, and he continues. "When you're around each other, you act…different: happier, lighter. Both of you do, actually."

Dean's face grows uncomfortably warm. "Sam, I don't know what the hell you're insinuating, but—"

"Dean, I'm not _insinuating_ anything. Feel free to take all of my words at face-value. I'm just letting you know what I see—_and _what I hear. Or did you already forget what you told me on Wednesday?"

Dean plays dumb. "I don't know what you're referring to, man."

"You said 'I miss Cas'," Sam supplies bluntly. "Yeah, you were drunk off your ass, but I could tell you were being honest." Sam sighs, and glances away. "But, anyway, the whole point of bringing this up was to explain why I didn't tell you about the kidnappings; Dean, I didn't tell you because it would've been pretty insensitive for me to just drop another case in your lap, with all the shit you have going on."

"Right, okay, well, I'm sorry to inform you, Mr. Good Intentions, but we're still here and I'm still on a case."

"You weren't supposed to be, okay?" Sam insists, "I planned on letting you just do your own thing and then sneaking off to figure the case out myself."

Dean scowls and eats another handful of banana chips, his jaw aggressively crushing them to smithereens. "Swell job on that front, Sammy. Anyway, man, I don't need you to friggin' tiptoe around me, alright? When I said—_what I said_, I just meant," he searches for the words, for the real meaning behind what he'd told Sam two nights ago in his self-pitying, drunken haze, but he finds nothing but truth. "Okay, I meant what I said, I guess," he admits begrudgingly, "But it's nothing new. And I'm not the only one, okay? What, are you going to tell me you've never missed him before?

Sam eyes his glass of water pensively, as if the answers to the universe are spelled out along the ice cubes. "You know, Dean, yeah, I have," Sam says after a moment, lifting his gaze to meet Dean's. "But I wouldn't feel ashamed to admit it."

Dean is spared from responding when their food arrives a minute later.

xxx

Shit doesn't hit the fan until Sam is halfway through his salad, which, in all honesty, looks more like a colorful centerpiece than a meal. He's in the motion of spearing a cherry tomato, when the bell of the front door chimes, followed by the frantic and decidedly un-Zen shriek of a wild-eyed brunette woman. _"I knew it!_" she cries, stumbling through the door, "I told them, but they didn't listen, and now it's too late! Suzy's _gone."_

In no time, the hostess—her name is Lucy, Dean thinks—leaves her place at the podium and wraps the woman in tight hug. Soothingly, Lucy rubs her back and murmurs placations into her hair, her expression filled with empathy as the dark-haired woman continues to weep brokenly.

What Dean finds odd, though, is that this whole display is met with nothing more than a few side-glances and one pointed cough; other than that, there is little reaction among the scant few customers and staff.

The brothers share a quick look of understanding and simultaneously rise from the table: Sam, scrambling for money to pay the bill, and Dean, digging into his pockets for his FBI badge.

When they've made their way over to her, Sam asks, "Ma'am are you alright?" at the same time Dean says, "FBI. We need to talk."

She stares between them with wide, watery eyes. "W-who are you?"

"Agent Smith, ma'am," Dean says without hesitation, flipping his badge open. "And this is my partner, Agent Crow. We overheard you speaking with the hostess, and we have some questions we'd like you to answer, if you don't mind."

She sniffles and glances over at Lucy, as if looking for encouragement. Thankfully, the whole process is made easy when Lucy immediately nods and reassures her. "You should talk to them, Eleanor. They might be able to help."

The woman bites the inside of her cheek anxiously. "I don't… I don't want to go without you," she says quietly, her eyes round and vulnerable. Before Lucy can say anything, Sam gently cuts in.

"We could do the questioning here, if you want, ma'am. That way you can still be around, um…"

"Lucy," the hostess contributes helpfully.

"Lucy." Sam nods. He turns his attention back to the woman. "Would that be alright?"

"Y-yes, I think so."

xxx

"What is your name, ma'am?" Dean asks, once the three of them are seated at a booth.

"Eleanor Watson."

She looks nervous and flighty, like she's liable to jump from her chair and leave at any moment. Dark violet pillows swell beneath her lower lashes, her cheeks are gaunt, and she has the sallow, tired complexion of someone who hasn't slept well in ages. In all honesty, she looks like she recently crawled away from an asylum.

"So," Sam starts, leaning in, his voice deliberately soft and careful, "who is Suzy and what happened to her?"

Eleanor's face crumbles like tissue at that, and she drops her face into her palms. After a moment of controlled breathing, she lifts her head and regards them with watery, bloodshot eyes. "Suzy is my neighbor. She just graduated from Riverdale high school two days ago. She was so beautiful and intelligent; she had her whole future before her. But now…" she trails off, the sorrow in her eyes growing. "Now she's gone and they won't find her, just like the rest."

Dean narrows his eyes. "And why do you say that?"

"Because," she replies shakily, "seven girls have gone missing in the past month and not a single one has been found. They haven't even recovered their b-bodies."

"What have the police been doing about these disappearances?" Sam asks.

"The police aren't doing _anything,"_ she hisses, her disposition abruptly shifting from subdued to furious. "I tried to tell them that something was wrong, that something bad was going to happen again, but they wouldn't listen! And now look what happened: Suzy's been taken by something!" After the last word, she freezes and her eyes widen, as if she's said too much. She drops her gaze to her carefully folded, shaking hands. Quietly, she corrects herself. "I meant, someone. _Someone_ took Suzy."

Sam glances at Dean from the corner of his eye, silently confirming that there is definitely something weird about what just happened; clearly Eleanor is holding back information. For the moment, however, Dean glosses over it, and, with a nearly imperceptible headshake, tells Sam to do the same.

"Now, do you know the last place Suzy was before she was taken?"

Eleanor shakes her head. "No," she replies miserably. "They only officially announced her kidnapping this morning, even though her parents say she went missing somewhere around eleven pm yesterday."

"What about the other victims, Eleanor? Did they know each other or share a connection of some sort?" Sam questions.

"Not that I know of. Suzy is the only victim that I knew personally. As for a connection…well, the _police _decided the kidnappings were random."

Sam is about to ask her something else, but Dean stops him with a raised hand. There was something in her voice when she spoke about the kidnappings being random, a bitter edge to her tone: almost as if she knows otherwise.

Dean leans in and lowers his voice. "And what do _you_ think happened?"

She swallows and glances away nervously, her jaw visibly flexing out of either anxiety or agitation. Maybe both. But, to Dean's surprise, when she finally looks back at them, her gaze is unwavering and steady—almost _too_ steady, in fact. When she speaks, the words sound smooth, innocuous, and, more importantly,_ rehearsed_.

"I don't know, Agent."

Dean doesn't believe her for a second—and, clearly, neither does Sam—but he can already tell that she won't be spilling the truth any time soon, so he decides to cut his losses.

"Thank you for your time, Eleanor. Here's our card; call us if you can think of anything else."

The two of them watch as she nervously swipes up the card and flees the restaurant, her eyes resolutely downcast. Once she's gone, Sam slides out of the booth and announces, "Well, that was the biggest load of crap I've ever heard. She clearly knows something, man."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "Listen, why don't you head to that motel a few blocks down and get us a room? Start looking into the details of the kidnappings. I'm gonna stick around and see what else I can figure out."

Sam nods. "Yeah, sounds good." When he makes no move to leave, Dean gives him a look and points sarcastically to the door.

"Exit's that way, Sammy."

Sam's expression turns incredulous. "Wait, so you're _not_ giving me the car keys, then? I'm just supposed to walk four blocks in ninety-degree weather in a _suit_? Seriously?"

"Baby is a privilege, not an entitlement," Dean snaps, protectively placing a hand over his back pocket, just in case Sam decides to try and steal the keys. "It's not even that far, man, quit complaining. I'm sure the motel's got AC."

Sam scowls but seems to understand that Dean isn't budging on this—if there is one thing Dean never takes lightly, it's his car—and his anger melts into sullen defeat. "Fine," he grumbles. "But you better make it up to me somehow. And it better be good."

"Yeah, yeah, we'll take that Disneyland trip one of these days, Sammy," Dean says, waving him off, his voice teasing.

xxx

Ten minutes after Sam has embarked on his four block-long journey, Dean heads to the front to speak with Lucy. She's busy showing a couple to their table, but Dean doesn't mind waiting; besides, it's important that he gets some outside information on this case. Even after talking with the Eleanor, Dean still isn't sure why everyone in the restaurant seemed so nonchalant about her passionate—not to mention,_ loud_—display at the hostess's stand. Plus, he gets the strong impression that there is a lot she didn't tell them. While he waits, he sends a quick text to Sam: **_About to talk w/ Lucy. Keep up the research & tell me what you find. DW _**

**_Can't do research yet, still walking. Might die from heat stroke. SW_**

Dean rolls his eyes, and is halfway through typing 'you're a drama queen', when his phone buzzes again.

**_I swear, if I sweat another drop, I'm gonna pass out. SW_**

And again.

**_I can't believe your car has priority over my health. SW_**

And _again._

**_My gravestone will say: 'hope it was worth it, Dean'. SW_**

Thankfully, Sam reaches the motel before his pity-party can go on much longer (**_Yes! The room has AC! SW_**) and Dean gladly pockets his blissfully silent phone.

Once Lucy finishes seating the customers, she notices him waiting by the podium and immediately rushes over. In one anxious breath, she says, "I saw Ellie leave, did she tell you everything? Do you think you'll be able to help?"

Dean gives her a reassuring look and nods. "Yeah, we definitely can. But first, I'm gonna need more details. Mind if I ask you some questions?"

She widens her eyes and bobs her head eagerly. "Of course, I'll help in any way I can. Give me a minute to let Karen know that I'm taking off a little early; she has the next shift, but she probably won't mind too much since mine ends in, like, five minutes. Be right back!"

A little later, Dean finds himself sitting at one of the restaurant's outdoor tables, a pen twirling idly in one hand, while he raptly listens to Lucy answer each of his questions.

"So, what is your relationship with Eleanor like?"

Lucy considers this for a moment, her eyes growing bright and her cheeks flushing. Her gaze drops to the table. "Well, Ellie and I dated a few years ago, back when we were in college, but we decided it wasn't working and split. We broke up on really good terms, though, and we've been insanely close ever since. She's my best friend."

Dean nods, makes a mental note that this girl is clearly still head over heels—who knows, it might end up being relevant—and then clears his throat. "Alright. Now, Eleanor already explained what happened to Suzy, so there's no need to recount that, but what I'm wondering is why no one seemed surprised at her—_display_ earlier. Most folks didn't even bat an eye."

At that, a sad, tired look dawns on her features. "Well, it started a few weeks ago. The kidnappings, I mean. Most of us were just scared, but Ellie…Ellie was convinced that it was something else that was stealing the girls. Something, um, _unnatural_."

Dean straightens up at this new bit of information. "Something unnatural? Eleanor didn't mention anything like that."

Lucy sighs and runs a hand through her messy, blonde hair. "Yeah. Well, I don't blame her for not saying anything; that theory is exactly why no one in this town takes her seriously anymore. Two weeks ago, she tried to tell the local police what she thought was responsible for the kidnappings, but they just sent her home and warned her not to come back and waste their time. Word got around, and before I knew it, the whole town had her pegged as some kind of raving lunatic. See, something real bad happened to her last year, and most folks figured this whole thing was her 'finally cracking'."

Interesting. "Two questions: what happened last year, and what did she think was responsible for the kidnappings?"

"Her mother died," Lucy says quietly. "She was the only family Ellie had left. Things got hard for her—real hard. She rarely slept or ate, and she spoke only to me and a few of her neighbors. For months, she immersed herself in books on mythology and all kinds of old religions. I think it comforted her. And, um, as for her theory…she thought—she thought that," Lucy pauses and looks Dean straight in the eye. "Agent Smith, before I tell you, please promise me you won't say that she's crazy for thinking this. I've heard it enough to last a lifetime."

Dean nods solemnly. "Promise."

"Okay," Lucy exhales heavily. "She thought that Venus, the roman Goddess, was kidnapping the girls."

xxx

As Dean makes his way into the parking lot, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls Sam.

Immediately, he is verbally assaulted by Sam's overeager greeting. "Did you get any new info?"

"Hi to you too, Sammy," Dean says sarcastically. "And yeah, I did. What did you find with the research?"

"Well, I found a huge connection between the victims: they were all virgins and under eighteen. Also, not too long ago, there were similar kidnappings a few towns over, which lasted pretty regularly for about a month before stopping entirely. Here, trouble started a few weeks ago, and since whatever it is clearly doesn't intend to stick around, we need to act fast."

Dean tiredly rubs his temples. "Okay, so what do you think this is, man? What's stealing the girls?"

"Some weird Satanist group, maybe?" Sam guesses. "I mean, sacrificing virgins is kind of their thing."

Dean is a little reluctant to bring up someone else's idea—mostly because it's probably way off—but he figures it can't hurt. "Well, actually, Lucy told me something that was kind of interesting. See, it turns out Eleanor _was_ holding back when we spoke to her. Apparently she had a theory on what was kidnapping the girls."

Sam huffs impatiently. "Well, go on, Dean. No need to build suspense."

"_Fine._ She thought that Venus, the roman goddess, was stealing virgins."

There's a long pause on the other end, and Dean is thinking that maybe Sam has been rendered speechless by the ridiculousness of that notion, when his brother surprises him by saying, "That…might be correct, Dean." Then, more to himself, "How did I not think of that?"

Dean raises his eyebrows, thoroughly impressed that a civilian managed to pinpoint a case so accurately. "There, there, Mr. Stanford Prelaw, don't feel too bad; apparently this chick was completely obsessed with mythology for the better part of a year, so it's no surprise that she made the connection so quickly."

"Well, kudos to her, because I think she's right," Sam concedes. "In fact, it actually makes a disturbing amount of sense. A lot of these accounts said that the girls went missing sometime late at night, and although the reports don't specify where the girls were last seen, there's this really shady place called—get this—'Love and Beauty', which is within walking distance of each of their houses. All of them passed it at some point, which means—"

"That there's a goddess holed up in there, grabbing girls right off the sidewalk," Dean finishes. "Got it. So now the only problem is, how do we kill her?"

Sam scoffs at the apparently obvious answer. "With weapons forged in Olympus, of course. That's how you kill Gods." The 'duh', although unsaid, is very heavily implied.

"Right," Dean chirps in mock-agreement, "well, I'll just stop at the nearest Gas-n-Sip and pick one up! I hear weapons forged on top of _mount-freaking-Olympus_ are on sale this time of year!"

"Easy with the sarcasm, Dean, your sharp wit is stabbing me through the phone," Sam retorts drily.

"Bitch," Dean grumbles, digging into his pockets for his keys.

"Jerk," Sam replies cheerily. "Now, I'm going to start researching how to kill the goddess of love, so why don't you head back to the motel and help out?" Then, as an afterthought, he adds,  
>"Oh, and on your way, could you pick up some granola bars? And grape juice?"<p>

Dean pulls the phone away from his head and looks at it incredulously, wishing the expression could transfer through the wire. _Seriously, Sam?_ "What are you? _Five?"_

Refusing to be made ashamed, Sam primly replies, "No. I'm a twenty-five year old _man _with a serious grape juice craving, alright? And granola bars are good for protein and energy. In fact, the oats and grains in most granola bars are-"

"Dear _god_," Dean interrupts with a groan. "I did _not _ask for a lecture on the friggin food pyramid, alright, Sammy? I'll get your damn juice and squirrel food, calm down."

"Good," Sam says, sounding smug.

With that, Dean tucks his phone back into his pocket and starts the Impala, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the busy road.

xxx

"You're kidding," Dean says in surprise, sitting up from his position in bed to stare at Sam. "_That's_ her kryptonite? A freaking _kiss?" _

They are currently holed up in their ratty little motel room—which, to its credit, isn't the worst that they've seen—while Sam tells Dean of his findings. Sam, being the genius-researcher that he is (Sam's words, not Dean's), managed to dredge up lore on Venus's 'Achilles heel', which, oddly enough, turned out to be something as innocuous a _kiss_.

"You're telling me," Dean repeats slowly, "that to kill Venus, all we gotta do is _kiss_ her? _The fuck? _Dude, are you on Wikipedia or something?"

Sam scowls, apparently offended that his credibility as a researcher is being questioned. "No, Dean, I'm not on Wikipedia. I found it in one of those 'roman mythology' volumes, which cross-referenced an old college textbook, and then I double checked my information by looking it up on some very credible sites. Trust me, Dean, it's legit."

Dean furrows his brow, still unable to completely wrap his mind around it. "Read me the exact quote that says that."

Sam rifles through the pile of books, before producing one with thick, ancient-looking binding and flipping it open. He searches for the correct page, then plants his index finger on a block of text. "'The great Goddess Venus, dually known as Aphrodite in Greek mythology, is an immortal embodiment and protector of all matters of love, beauty, and fertility, and can only be destroyed by a kiss of ill intention. Only one with the true desire to murder the goddess will prevail.' Then, in the book it cross-references, it says that you need 'a kiss of grim intention and the_ mortem permanentem _incantation' in order to gank her."

"More-tem perma_-what?"_

"It's Latin. It basically translates into 'the permanent death'. I had to look pretty deep for the incantation itself, but after a few calls with Bobby, we managed to dig it up. We also found a spell that'll bind her in the meantime, so that she won't, you know, kill us the moment she sees us."

Dean rubs his hands together, eager to get this show on the road. "Alright, Sammy, let's go catch us a goddess!"

xxx

When Sam told Dean about the process of killing the goddess_, _Dean was pretty on board, because _hello!_ Making out with some hot goddess? He'd take that over stabbing a stake through her chest any day.

Thus, one can imagine Dean's disappointment when, in the midst of setting up their little trap, the supposedly 'hot' goddess turns out to be_ quite_ the opposite of what Dean was imaging.

In fact, when she pops into the deserted warehouse three minutes earlier than he or Sam expect, Dean doesn't jump out of alarm, he jumps because there is suddenly an _ogre-troll-witch hybrid_ standing in the exact spot he was expecting a beautiful woman to appear.

"What the_ hell_?" Dean squawks, eyes round, and the shock is almost enough to make him drop his knife. The troll-beast-witch-thing turns to face him, and, unfortunately for Dean, gives him a whole eyeful of the goddess in all her hunchbacked glory.

Venus is, in short, horrifying. She vaguely resembles the creepy crossing guard who worked at one of Dean's many elementary schools, only far uglier, about a hundred years older, and reeking very strongly of cabbage. The Goddess's teeth—though Dean is reluctant to refer to her as a goddess, since 'hag' seems to be the more fitting description—are varying shades of yellow: all lined up in crooked rows like candy corn. Her head is as bald as a boiled egg, with only a few sparse wisps of hair to conceal the shining grey dome of her scalp. The part of Dean's mind that is _not_ numb with horror, surmises that perhaps at one point in her life—back when dinosaurs wandered, probably—she had decent facial features, as there is the barest hint of beauty hiding beneath her currently hideous exterior. But time has apparently been unkind, because any trace of loveliness is buried miles beneath shriveled lips, colorless eyes, nonexistent eyebrows and translucent skin.

She grins, and it's ten shades of ghoulish mixed with fifty pounds of _freaky as hell_. "Now, that's no way to welcome a Goddess, is it?" Her voice is thick and sweet like honey, with a hint of raspy seductiveness, and Dean can describe it as nothing other than _sexy_—which makes the whole situation a million times creepier, since that throaty voice is currently spilling from the cracked, twisted lips of a freaking _mountain troll_.

Sam recovers first, but just barely, and manages to croak out, "You're Venus?"

She raises a twisted brow, seemingly amused. "Yes. I assume the books and paintings have depicted me as slightly more—youthful?"

"A bit, yeah," Sam mutters, around a cough.

"Well, therein lies the problem, darling. You see, that is why I had to kill those pretty little virgins—for their lovely, striking youth," she sighs dreamily, "Oh they were just so bright and beautiful, like roses waiting to be plucked and turned to perfume." Sam glowers and tightens his grip on the knife. "Oh, don't look at me like that, dear, it is you faithless humans who have forced this life upon me! I have no followers, nor do many of my brothers and sisters, and because of my lack of godliness I am forced to endure human nuisances such as _age_. I am older than one can possibly contemplate, and it clearly shows," she sweeps a hand down the lumpy shape of her figure. "But, one little vial of virgin's blood and voila! Young and beautiful once more."

Sam glares at her, his eyes bright with anger. "So that's why you've been killing all those women? For vanity? You _disgust_ me."

Venus laughs airily. "Darling, do not claim to understand the importance of beauty. Us women must go to great lengths in order to achieve perfection, whereas men can dress as sloppy as they please and behave like beasts, and _still_ somehow expect the world to consider them desirable."

Dean mercifully drags his eyes away from a particularly outstanding boil on the edge of her nose and clears his throat, "Listen up, wicked witch of the west," he snaps, determined to keep his cool despite the overwhelming urge to puke. "I don't need to hear you bitch and moan about how you were hit with the ugly stick, okay? We're here to take care of business and put an end to your freaky, virgin-killing spree, not listen to you complain; this ain't a 'Dear Abby' column."

At Dean's voice, the goddess's eyes light up with intrigue; she turns away from Sam and looks at Dean as if she's seeing him for the first time. "You're rather pretty, Dean Winchester," she muses. "Beneath all that masculine gusto, you've got quite delicate features." Her eyes rake appreciatively over his eyes, his mouth. "A big bad hunter with emerald eyes and shapely lips? Ha! Apparently, darling, things are not as they seem with you." She smirks. "And I'm sure your internal situation is similar, in that regard."

Dean shifts uncomfortably, but does his best to maintain a gruff expression. He opens his mouth to say something snarky, but she patiently raises her finger to silence him, and, for some reason, the words die in his throat.

Venus eyes him appraisingly, as if studying an abstract painting. "Not only are you physically lovely, but you smell_ divine_ as well."

"Old Spice," Dean supplies drily. "Great stuff."

"No, I don't mean your _human _smell; all of you hairless apes smell horrid. I am of course referring to the smell of your _soul_, Dean. It is the smell of someone in love."

Hot, embarrassed blush spreads across his neck. Gruffly, he says, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about." _Because he doesn't, okay?_ However, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sammy narrowing his eyes in confusion and preparing to open his big mouth and start asking questions, so to cut off that possibility, Dean says, "Either way, you better get a good whiff, Venus, because it won't be long before you're a pile of ash."

Venus sighs long-sufferingly and glances about the empty warehouse. Sounding agitated, she asks, "So I suppose you've taken the correct measures to trap me here, then?"

To his relief, confidence seeps back into his tone. "Yup. Just a pinch of faerie dust, fool's gold, shredded Rose petals, saliva of an infant, and a virgin's left wrist bone. No biggie."

She dully examines the black crescents of dirt beneath her nails and shifts her weight, her expression untroubled and slightly bored. "Yes, yes, that's all grand, but I'm assuming that wrist bone was not fresh?"

Sam fidgets and adjusts his grip on the knife hidden in his back pocket. "Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Doesn't matter, the spell didn't specify. It'll still hold you."

Venus tosses him a flippant smile. "Yes, it'll definitely hold me, but for how long? I must say, boys, killing a virgin probably would have been wiser. Who knows how long that shoddy corpse's bone will hold? As pretty as you two darlings are, as soon as this trap breaks I will kill you without a second thought." She punctuates the statement with a sweet smile that curdles Dean's insides. "Until then, I suppose you've also devised some plot to destroy me? Or—as you so eloquently phrased it, Dean—'turn me to a pile of ash'?"

Sam straightens his shoulders and levels the goddess with a confident look. "Yeah, actually we have. And since you can't move from that spot, it should be pretty easy, too." Nothing grand follows this statement, so she waits a few beats in bored silence, glancing from Dean to Sam and then back at her nails; meanwhile, Sam's self-assured expression falters and Dean finds himself once again distracted by the constellation of moles scattered across her chin.

Eventually, Sam clears his throat and cuts his eyes at Dean, making a not-so-subtle _'go on'_ gesture with his knife-free hand.

It then occurs to Dean that he's supposed to kiss her.

On the _mouth._

With_ his_ mouth.

"No fucking way," he pronounces, shaking his head and backing up. "There's got to be another way, and if there isn't, then you go right ahead and do it your damn self."

"Dean—"

"Don't you 'Dean' me. I'm not doing it, Sam."

"C'mon, dude, really? You've beheaded vamps and practically waded through monster guts, yet you choose_ this_ to be squeamish about?"

"We _are_ looking at the same pair of lips, right? The ones that resemble dehydrated apricots? _Fuck_ no."

Venus cuts in, sounding vaguely amused. "You Winchesters sure do know how to flatter a girl." Then, she makes a point of sitting down Indian-style on the floor. She smirks. "Tell you what, sugar; if you act real gentlemanly I won't use tongue."

In response, Dean's entire body cringes back in repulsion. Yeah—that's it, there's no fucking way he's putting his mouth anywhere near the vicinity of hers. Sam can go right to hell.

"Dean, we need to kill her. You have to do this."

"No_, you_ kiss her and _I'll _read the incantation."

"You don't even know it! It has to be read in the correct cadence otherwise it won't work," Sam insists. And unlike at the restaurant, he can tell Sam is telling the truth.

"Maybe you _should_ be the one to kiss me, Sam," she suggests idly. "Being that Dean's heart is already taken."

That same spike of white-hot embarrassment makes its way up his spine like an electric jolt; in fact, he's so eager for Venus to _shut the hell up,_ that suddenly, kissing her doesn't seem so bad. With gritty determination in his voice, he tells Sam, "Get that damned spell book out, I'm going in."

Venus raises a brow in amusement, as he makes his way over to her. "Dean, love, I must warn you, kissing me has interesting side-effects that your little book might have failed to mention."

He swallows. "Such as?"

She grins, her crumbling, yellow teeth on full display. "I'm not sure, hot stuff, it's been centuries since someone's attempted it. We'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"

He pauses and clenches his fists at his sides, resolution wavering. "Sammy," he barks, without taking his eyes from the goddess. "What the hell's she talking about?"

Dean can't tell because he isn't looking, but he's willing to bet half of his nonexistent life savings that Sam is blinking and fidgeting nervously right now. "I don't know, man. The, uh, lore on Venus was kinda vague. I'm pretty sure you'll be fine though!" he finishes optimistically.

"_Pretty sure?"_ Dean shrieks, tearing his eyes away from Venus's less-than-desirable visage. "Gee, Sammy, well now that you're _pretty sure_ this'll work, I guess I'm totally up for risking my ass!"

"Dean—"

"Just…just tell me that you at least read every possible thing you could? Hell, man, fake confidence if you have to." Because, yeah, Dean would rather eat his shoe than lock lips with the creature from the black lagoon, but shit needs to get done and since Sam has to read the stupid spell, it looks like this one is resting entirely on Dean's shoulders.

Earnestly, Sam assures him, "Dude I scoured every nook and cranny for info on her, okay? I'm almost certain she's just bluffing."

Venus, meanwhile, has her chin cupped in her hand, wearing an expression Dean can only call 'smug as motherfucking hell'. "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. Who knows, hon? I will say, though, I am certainly eager to see what that hot little mouth of yours tastes like." To make matters worse, she licks her chapped, twisted lips and makes a noise in the back of her throat that Dean thinks_ might_ have been a purr.

"Sam you're going to owe me for years to come," he chokes out, as he takes a few wooden steps forward. _"Years."_

"Got it," Sam promises, holding the book open. "The chant's ready when you are, Dean."

"I don't bite," Venus says innocently, then smirks and cocks her head. "Unless of course you're into that…"

Dean gulps down his nausea and steps even closer. _Think of pretty girls, girls without moles, girls with white teeth instead of yellow…_

Dean's last thought is something along the lines of '_fucking Sam fucking curse fucking Venus' _and then without further ado, he presses his mouth fully against the goddess's.

He has a chance to notice the smirking curve of her upper lip and realize that shit is about to go horribly wrong, before something pinches between his shoulder blades and bright red lights flood the backs of his eyelids. He can hear Sam shouting his name and the Goddess laughing, but there is no time to pinpoint exactly what the hell is going on, because in the next moment, a blinding shaft of light drowns the room and unconsciousness swallows him whole.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Ooh, suspense! Tune in next time, kids! Jk. But for reals: make sure to subscribe/follow so that you'll know when chapter 2 is up! Since it's already 1/3 written, it should be posted by next Friday. Ish. Probably Saturday, tbh. **

**Guys, I would ADORE whatever feedback your lovely brains have to offer, so feel free to leave some reviews! Hate it? Love it? Have some suggestions? I'M ON BOARD WITH IT ALL. **

**Anyway, thanks for reading, darlings, see you next weekend! 3**

**X0X0**


	2. Love at First Bite

**A/N: I'm back, darlings, and I come bearing gifts! Hope you guys like this new chapter, I had a blast writing it! (I'm also having waaay too much fun with the chapter titles)**

**Don't forget to follow and comment, you lovely people you! **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>When Dean wakes up and sees that his jacket and hands are covered in shimmering powder, he thinks, fleetingly, that he really needs to stop blacking out in strip clubs. At this point, it's just getting ridiculous.<p>

Then, all at once, the memories slam into him like a truck; he is definitely _not _in a strip club right now (though, that certainly would be preferable). No, instead he is sprawled across the floor of an abandoned warehouse, Sam is two inches away from his face with a concerned expression, and for some freaking reason, his entire body is covered in glitter. Or whatever the fuck this weird, shiny powder is.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam is grabbing the sides of his face in those ridiculously huge paws of his, frantically shouting his name. "Dude! Can you hear me?"

After the second shout, Dean's dazed confusion is abruptly replaced by annoyance. "Yes! Now let _go_!" Dean snaps, tugging his head out of Sam's clutches. "Calm down, will you? I'm fine."

And, oddly enough, he is. Which is weird, considering the fact that he was absolutely certain something horrible was about to go down as soon as he kissed Venus—why _else _would she have cackled and smirked?

However, Dean knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he doesn't question the whole thing too deeply. (For now, anyway).

Sam, on the other hand, doesn't seem to share this perspective.

"Fine? _Fine?"_ Sam cries, looking at Dean as if he's just made the understatement of the century. "Dude, after I finished the chant and you kissed Venus, she started laughing and then freaking _exploded_ in this huge cloud of—of," Sam pauses to assess the substance in question, which isn't too difficult since it's covering every inch of Dean's body. "Of glitter," he finishes, sounding somewhat bemused. He quickly shakes it off, though, and goes back to recounting what happened. "Dude, right before she disappeared, she grabbed your shoulder or back or something, and there was this huge bang. After that, you collapsed to the floor like a ragdoll."

Again: _weird_. But, before he submits to the same panic-attack that Sam is currently experiencing, he decides to inspect himself for damage first.

"Chill out for a sec, Sammy." Dean extends his arm and watches, amused, as Sam follows the movement like a hawk. He does the same with his legs, fingers, neck, and toes; after flexing every voluntary muscle and mentally reviewing all possible symptoms of fatal afflictions—and making sure he has none of them—Dean feels that he can safely say he is _fine_.

"I'm good, and the hag is dead." Dean says, standing. "What do you say we get the hell out of here?"

Sam looks around the warehouse uncertainly, as if Venus is still lurking amongst the shadows. "Yeah, I guess."

xxx

Despite the thorough self-checkup, Sam spends the ride back to motel worrying over Dean like a fretting mother hen. "Dean, are you sure you feel okay?" Sam asks (for the sixth time), furrowing his brow until that concerned "L" –shaped crease appears on his forehead.

"Dude," Dean grits out, tightening his grip on the wheel. "I'm fine, okay? Like I told you: I kissed her, saw a freaky lightshow, passed out, and then woke up without a scratch. No worries, Sammy, we ganked her and I managed to escape unscathed. We should be celebrating, alright?"

There's a long, pregnant pause. "I don't know, Dean," Sam says eventually, sounding dubious. "I know it_ looked_ like she died—she, like, disappeared into smoke and all that—but I have a weird feeling that she _didn't._ Die, I mean."

Now, there are two things you really don't wanna tell a guy who just kissed a hag: Firstly, that there is photographic evidence; and, secondly, _that it was in vain._

"Are you telling me," Dean says slowly, "that I put my mouth on that _creature_ for nothing?"

The lack of an immediate reply is answer enough. "Well, great!" Dean chirps, in mock cheeriness. "This is just peachy, isn't it? Any other disgusting, pointless things you think I should do, Sam? Go to third base with a troll? Bed an ogre?"

"Dean—"

"Sam," Dean snaps, punctuating the word with a scowl in order to deter any possible interruption. "Sam, I thought you said it would kill her. You did your research, man! You were Mr. Confidence like two hours ago, but now that we've actually done the deed, you're suddenly having doubts? I don't get it!"

Sam huffs impatiently. "You didn't see her 'die', okay, Dean? I did, and it was almost _too_ clean. There were no guts or bits of flesh, or even a clump of hair. She just _disappeared _in a cloud of freaking _glittery smoke_, as if it were some kind of magic trick, so excuse me for having my doubts!"

"I dunno, Sam! Maybe that's just how she looks when she freaking dies!"

"Dean, she laughed right before we 'killed' her; plus, remember that whole thing about the wrist bone? What if she was right? What if it wasn't strong enough to hold her, and she managed to teleport out of there at the last second because the binding spell didn't completely work?"

Dean sighs and briefly toys with the idea of ending this conversation altogether—because goddamn, this is really spiking his blood pressure—but thinks better of it; they need to deal with this right now, since there is a apparently a decent chance that Venus is still on the loose.

"Fine. Okay," Dean mutters, eyes fixed on the road. "When we get back to the motel we'll do some research and figure this out, alright?"

"Sounds good," Sam agrees.

"Alright. Until then, can we just, you know, not talk about this? If you don't mind, I'd like to drown my disgust in Zeppelin."

Before Sam can throw a fit over the fact that they've heard this tape 'a million times already, Dean!' he cranks the volume up to max and loudly sings along to Stairway to Heaven.

xxx

By the time they've reached the motel, Dean is still pretty peeved about the kiss, but after a solid twenty minutes of good music and _not talking about Venus_, his fury is slowly returning to an acceptable level. As he swings the door of the impala shut and pockets his keys, humming something tuneless and chipper under his breath, he starts to think that maybe, just maybe, this day isn't complete shit after all.

But then, because the universe hates him—or, at the very least, wants to push him to his absolute limits—the moment he sets foot in the lobby, some anxious, jittery dude runs into him and spills coffee all down the front of his shirt. And not just any shirt, either: his _favorite _shirt—the one he picked up a few years back, with the ACDC logo on the front.

"Christ, goodness, oh man, I'm so sorry," the guy stutters, holding the half-empty cup in one hand and nervously avoiding Dean's eyes. "M-maybe I can help get it out, I have one of those fancy, uh, stain-removal kit things, right in my back pocket, I think. One sec—" And then, in the process of retrieving the 'stain removal thing', the man somehow manages to spill the rest of his coffee on the remaining dry parts of Dean's shirt.

_"__Dude!"_ Dean shouts, jumping backwards, as hot liquid drips from the hem of the shirt, soaking uncomfortably into his skin. "_What the hell?"_

Now the guy looks positively mortified. "Oh my gosh, my goodness gracious, I-I am so, so sorry, is there anything that I can do to, uh, help?"

"Yeah!" Dean barks. "Stay the hell away from me!"

"Dean," Sam starts, in his diplomatic 'now let's be reasonable' voice.

Dean whips around and points a finger right into Sam's chest. _"No,"_ he bites; this is_ really_ not the time for some kind of lecture on manners and public behavior. Then he turns back to the dude, who is now shaking like a hairless Chihuahua. "And _you:_ keep your damn coffee in your cup! It's not that hard, man!"

With that, he turns on his heel and practically stomps down the hall to their room, barely aware that the room key is pressing indentations into his palm from holding it so fiercely.

xxx

In the room, Dean wastes no time in tugging his jacket off and peeling the sticky, latte-smelling shirt from his torso. He hears Sam walk in and pointedly turns around to face the wall; he's still pissed as hell and the last thing he wants to see is Sam's apologetic, glossy-eyed expression. Instead, he stubbornly focuses on the splintered plaster before him.

He's just managed to get the shirt over his head, when he hears Sam say, "Whoa. Uh, Dean?" in the voice he uses whenever he's about to say something he knows Dean won't like: it's a mix of concern, reluctance, and a whole lot of caution.

_What now?_

"Yeah, Sam?" he says testily.

"Dean, okay, don't freak out, but there's something on your back. It almost looks like a—a huge spider bite or something."

"A spider bite?" Dean asks, twirling uselessly in circles in order to see the bite for himself. "How big? I can't feel anything."

Sam grabs his shoulder to stop him and leans in to get a closer look. "Holy shit, dude," he mutters, sounding simultaneously disgusted and fascinated. "Something in there is _moving_."

"WHAT?"

Sam fucking _knows_ how Dean feels about that whole _'some weird shit is living in your skin and probably laying eggs as we speak'—_thing, ever since they watched _Flesh Hosts_ two summers back. With no regard for his dignity, Dean begins jumping around and bending his arms back to scrabble at the supposed area of the _egg sack_—or whatever the fuck it is. "Get it out, man!" he shrieks in a very manly and completely dignified manner. "Carve it out of me with a damn knife if you have to, _just get it out!"_

"Dean! Calm the hell down," Sam insists, pressing a hand to his shoulder. Of course, when Sam starts laughing and follows up with "_You might scare it_" Dean has no other choice than to slug him in the arm.

After a few more undignified giggles, Sam finally sobers up enough to pull out his laptop and a couple of books, and start doing some research. Dean, meanwhile, sits on the edge of the bed, his back ram-rod straight, staring unseeingly at the blank TV; in light of recent discoveries, he isn't really in the mood for doing much else.

The sound of Sam's typing and the occasional 'hm' of consideration are the only sounds in the motel room, aside from Dean occasionally tapping his foot in a nervous tattoo. Even though he knows he's probably only torturing himself by doing this, Dean can't stop imagining what the thing on his back must look like. He can't stop imagining that, right between his shoulder blades, there is an egg-sized pustule with a little fetus-shaped alien-bug floating around in clear liquid, and freaking out over the fact that it has the potential to squirm too hard and burst free, like some disgusting rendition of birth.

—dear god why did he have to think of it being _born?_

"Sam."

"Hold on, Dean, I'm reading."

"Dude at least tell me what color it was."

Sam stops typing and looks up at him. "Why the hell do you want to know that? Whatever answer I give is only gonna make it even worse."

"Come on, man. I have a fucking _creature_ living on my back—the least I deserve is a description."

Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to typing, but, to Dean's satisfaction, starts describing. "Well, it was red and about the size of a half-dollar, in the shape of an egg. The outside of it looked clear, like pink-tinted Saran wrap or something, and the uh, _creature_ itself just looked like the silhouette of a beetle. Happy?"

"No." Dean says miserably, dropping his head into his hands and wondering what he did to deserve this.

After a long, long time—ten minutes feels like a century when you have a freaking _alien_ on your back, okay?—Sam finally glances up from the thick, leather-bound tome in his lap. "Well," he says slowly, "according to its size, shape, and uh_ contents_, it's a 'love bug.'"

"A _what_?"

"Yup. A love bug. Apparently one of Venus's favorite go-to curses."

"You're telling me that crazy bitch did this to me?" he growls, fury pumping through his veins like a tangible substance. "If she isn't already dead, I'm gonna freaking _kill her."_

Sam purses his lips, but makes no comment. Instead he just keeps explaining. "According to this, it 'burrows itself into the host's skin' and makes that person feel a 'dramatic increase in affection', especially towards the 'love of their life'."

Dean swallows uncomfortably. "Okay and what do the recorded cases say?"

Sam licks his thumb and uses it to flip the next few pages, his brow crinkled in concentration. "Ah!" he mutters, pressing his finger to a block of text, "Okay, so get this: back in the days when this kind of thing happened a lot, the people who were bitten almost always ended up with their 'true love'—with the exception of unrequited loves, of course—and they tended to act super lovey-dovey with anyone they felt even remotely fond of." Sam glances up with a crooked smile. "Basically, this spell is going to rid you of your terrible case of emotional constipation. You're going to become the most affectionate dude on the planet, Dean."

Dean grits his teeth and swallows the urge to punch Sam right in his smug, bitchy face. Three calming breaths later, the desire to inflict physical violence ebbs away, and Dean replies, "I don't feel different, though. Maybe I'm immune to it?" He wonders if the hope in his voice is too obvious.

"Sorry, man," Sam says, his expression melting into genuine sympathy. "The effects don't kick in immediately. For some people it takes five minutes, but for others, five days. It also says that not all people were affected by the curse in the same way—as in, not everyone became a love-struck sap. Unfortunately it doesn't specify what_ did_ happen to them. We'll just have to wait and see I guess."

"Wait and see," Dean repeats numbly, because _waiting and seeing_ are probably his least favorite things on the planet. He's the kind of guy who wants shit to go down _now_, so that they can barrel into the situation and deal with it immediately. He hates _suspense, _especially since, in this case, he is_ literally_ counting down the last few minutes—or days—of his sanity.

Also, there's a fucking _beetle _swimming around in a huge blister-pod on his back, so that doesn't exactly improve his mood either.

"Listen, man," Sam starts, standing up from the chair, "I'm gonna head to the local library and see what else I can dig up, alright? See if there's a cure. You just sit tight; don't go anywhere because the, um, curse might start to act up and we have no idea what that entails."

Dean drops his head in his hands, pressing his thumbs to his temples in order to ward off an impending headache. In a dull tone, he mutters, "You mean we're not sure if I'll either elope with a stranger or start humping some chick's leg like a dog, right?"

Sam rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "Uh, yeah, basically. The book didn't specify what exactly the effects were."

"Great. Just _great_."

xxx

When Sam's gone, Dean sighs and flops down onto the shitty, creaky bed with the TV remote in one hand and half a Snickers bar in the other. Thankfully, _Casa Erotica_ is always playing on loop in run-down dumps like this, and Sam was wise enough to pick up some chocolate on his last 'grocery trip' (aka a ten minute stop at the nearest Gas-n-Sip). He takes a bite of candy and sighs (chocolate is his third favorite way to drown his sorrows), flipping through the TV menu for something good; he feels absolutely no qualms about any of this, because, in light of recent events, he's pretty sure that he's earned the right to some indulgence.

And, yeah, maybe it's a little sad that Dean's idea of pampering himself is watching bad porn and binging on junk food, but _whatever. _It's better than screwing some waitress or chugging whiskey at a bar, right?

With another bite of chocolate and a weary sigh, he switches the program on.

xxx

He doesn't notice it at first—the weird, fuzzy heat creeping along his extremities—and it isn't until he looks at Britney Rose (the main babe in _College Dorms III_) and catches himself thinking, "_Wow, she has a gorgeous smile and such a bubbly personality, she could do so much in the business world with that charisma" _that he starts to think something might be wrong.

Then, he looks at the dude currently drilling her into the mattress, and feels this ridiculous burst of_ affection_, as if the guy were a lifelong friend instead of some random porn star. His heart kind of breaks, because there is so much more that Chico Bonerz could be doing with his life, like going to college for a degree or taking up an internship at his business of choice. He's young and teeming with potential: what is he doing in porn? Dean has to bite down on his knuckles to keep from tearing up over the misguided careers that Britney Rose and Chico Bonerz have chosen; why don't young people understand that they've got their whole future ahead of them?

After another pained few minutes, it becomes too much and Dean just flicks off the TV altogether, choosing instead to stare at the wall with a sad expression.

And then, just as quickly as it began, the feelings ebb away. The warm dizziness that had engulfed him only moments ago evaporates, replaced by stark sobriety and a shit-ton of confusion.

"_What the actual fuck?"_ he hisses, gaze fixated at a crack in the wall.

He stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom, where he plants himself before the mirror and inspects his reflection. Dean groans at the sight that greets him; high on his cheekbones are ridiculous pink splotches—since when does he freaking blush?!—and there is a glazed, happy quality to his eyes. If he wasn't so goddamn confused-slash-pissed, he would probably admit that he looked _starry-eyed. _

However, as it stands, he is far too tangled up in indignation and uncertainty to dwell on the fact that he looks like a blushing virgin on prom night. With a loud, irritated exhale, he drags his hands down his face and groans, because, fuckity-fuck, looks like the curse is finally making its appearance.

He sits on the closed toilet seat and pulls out his phone to text Sam. **_2 min. ago I almost shed a tear over a couple of porn stars. Either I'm growing a vagina or the curse is kicking in. DW _**

**_Hopefully not the former. Be there in 5 min. SW_**

In the meantime, Dean decides to finally submit to the burgeoning panic attack that he has somehow managed to evade for the past few hours. Well, okay, 'decides' is a bit of stretch, since Dean doesn't _actually_ make a conscious choice to huddle up on the bathroom floor and scream expletives into his hands; it kind of just happens. Seventeen s-words, six b-words, and a few colorful synonyms for 'fuck' later, Dean hears the motel's door swing open and Sam's booming voice call, "Dean? You here?"

"Unfortunately," he drones in response. He lets his head fall back against the wall.

"Well I got you something that might cheer you up." From the bathroom, Dean can hear crinkling paper, and deduces that Sam bought him a skin mag—which he can't even enjoy because, thanks to the curse, he'll probably fall in love with one of the photos. He listens half-heartedly as Sam continues talking and rifling through his findings in the next room. "Also, I found a couple of other things in the public library, but most of it only confirmed what we already knew."

Awesome.

The rustling noises stop. "Dean?" Sam pushes the bathroom door open hesitantly, as if unsure of what he'll find. When it's clear that it's just Dean, slumped against the wall and looking like the universe just kicked him in the jewels, Sam steps inside. "So," he says, awkwardly, "how are you feeling?"

"Great_,_" Dean chirps. "Yeah, Sammy, I always sit on the bathroom floor and seethe when I'm in a dandy mood!"

In response, Dean receives one of Sam's signature Bitch faces. "I thought this curse was supposed to make you _nicer."_

"If you showed up twenty minutes ago, you'd probably say different."

"Right. About that…" Sam lowers himself onto the closed toilet seat. "In one of these really old mythology books, I found something that said there were special cases in which the effects of the love bug were sporadic and random, and others where the victim could even control the impulses altogether. I think you might be part of the former category, since you were mooning over porn stars earlier but seem fine right now."

Dean frowns. "Wait, is that good or bad news?"

"Well, it's a little bit of both, actually. It means that at least you won't spend 24/7 as some love struck, puppy-eyed zombie. But…it also means that the curse will hit you randomly, which could potentially be sort of awkward, depending on the situation."

Dean rubs his hands down his face in frustration. He waits for that all-too familiar feeling of dread to sink his stomach, but instead finds a warm, vaguely elated feeling thrumming in his veins instead; it's sudden and unexpected, but in mere moments his body becomes completely engulfed in the sensation. He pulls his palms away from his eyes and glances up at Sam, who is staring back at him with a mildly concerned expression, and experiences a burst of affection strong enough to knock him off his feet. He suddenly can't remember what frustration even means, let alone what it feels like; all of his mental angst recedes to the back of his mind in favor of happiness and an overwhelming amount of adoration.

"Sammy, you're the best, you know that?" Dean can't help but sob out the last part around a huge grin. "I love you, man."

Sam blinks, then stumbles into the standing position. "Holy shit, is this the curse? Is it happening right now?"

It's amazing how caring his brother is; how, despite everything they've endured—lies, broken promises, hardship in general—Sam is still willing to stand by Dean's side and help him through whatever obstacle is in his way. There are not enough words on the planet to fully describe the gratitude Dean feels for having such an incredible, selfless brother.

"Yeah, it is, Sammy," he says with a smile. "But it's alright, man, because you're here to help me through it, just like you always are. God—I am just so lucky to have you as my family. C'mere."

And without further ado, he wraps his baby brother in a spine-crushing hug. Mid-embrace, Dean realizes just how tall Sam is. He chuckles. "Man, you're like a big friendly tree."

"Dean, please let go," Sam wheezes, attempting to pry Dean's hands off of him.

"Too tight?"

_"__Yeah." _

Dean obligingly loosens his grip, but makes sure not to completely let go. "I can't even remember why I was mad, anymore," he says into Sam's warm, flannel-clad shoulder.

"You were pissed because I told you that I didn't find a cure for your curse, Dean! You were angry and upset and annoyed, and you sure as hell would not be hugging me right now if you weren't high on love potion."

"I'm not high on…" Dean stops, confused, and blinks several times; all at once, the happy feelings drain away, leaving his brain with only anger and frustration. "What the hell," he groans, releasing Sam immediately.

Sam leaps away from his immediate vicinity and sucks down lungfuls of air, making Dean wonder just how fierce that hug had been. "You good?" Dean asks.

Sam stops panting and nods, albeit warily. "Better question is, are_ you_ good?"

"Right now, yeah. But I can't make any promises for the near future," he mutters bitterly.

Sam paces the room for a few seconds, clearly debating something. After a minute, he steels himself and looks Dean right in the eye. "Dude, we need to call Cas, okay?"

Dean grits his teeth and pointedly ignores the way his heart pounds harder at the angel's name. "No," Dean retorts, his tone unyielding and firm. "He's probably busy with some heavenly duty or something."

"Dean, no offense but you sound like a neglected girlfriend."

Dean's nostrils flare in irritation. "What's that even supposed to mean? I don't sound like a 'neglected girlfriend' and I don't give a shit that he's busy all the damn time, alright? He's an angel. He's got bigger and better things to do than slum it on earth. I'm fine. I'm great, actually." Dean tries to smile to show just how great he is, but it ends up looking more like a grimace.

Sam visibly wrestles down a smirk and goes back to his pacing. Under his breath, he says, "Doth protest too much…"

"Shut the hell up, Sam."

Sam's lips quirk up again, but when he speaks he sounds more reasonable than amused. "Listen, man, Castiel is an angel, which is a hell of a lot closer to a goddess than a human. Plus, the dude's been around for how many millennia now? He's probably got access to loads of information we don't. His help is really important to this whole thing, Dean." Sam raises an eyebrow. "Unless of course you _want_ to live your life with the emotional capacity of a thirteen year old girl…"

Dean screws his eyes shut and makes an aggravated noise. "Fine," he spits. "Call the guy and let's get this show on the road."

Sam just scoffs. "Me? Yeah, we've tried that before. He doesn't come when I pray, remember? Not unless it's an actual life or death—'we're two seconds from having our guts ripped out'—kind of situation. You call."

Dean considers arguing back for a moment, but even he realizes that Sam has a point; Cas rarely comes when his brother calls, but when _Dean_ is the one praying, the angel shows up at the drop of a dime.

He pointedly ignores the warm flush he feels at that thought.

"Okay, whatever." Dean seats himself at the edge of the bed, closes his eyes, and leans forward so that his elbows are on his knees. He bows his head, then feels pretty ridiculous, and lifts it again (suffice to say, it's been a while since he's done this). "Uh, hey, Cas. Hi." He clears his throat and squirms uncomfortably. "So, I, uh, got myself into a little bit of a pickle. See, Sam and me tried to off Venus—you know, Goddess of love and all that—but instead of killing her, we just made her mad as hell and she planted a _love bug_ on me. So yeah, now I'm cursed and Sammy hasn't found a cure yet, so we were wondering if you could maybe pop in and—"

"Hello, Dean."

"Jesus!" Dean jumps back in surprise, because suddenly there is 6 ft. of scruffy-haired, squinty blue-eyed angel sitting half a centimeter away from him.

Cas tilts his head in confusion. "No; it's _Castiel." _

"I know that! I said Jesus because you just—just _poofed_ in here in without warning!"

Cas considers this. "Would you prefer a call in advance?"

For some reason, that nettles Dean. All at once, his angry (neglected) and pissed off (hurt) feelings towards Castiel come bursting forth. "Actually, Cas, I'd prefer a call _in general_. As in, you can't just come and go like this without, you know, checking in every now and then, alright? How else am I—are _we_—supposed to know if you're okay?"

Dean's words apparently reach Cas, because his eyes immediately grow wide and remorseful. "My apologies, Dean," he says lowly. "I did not realize my absence was having such a negative effect. In the future I will endeavor to tell you my whereabouts so that you do not have to worry."

Before Dean can revel in the relief and comfort that those words bring, Sam has to butt in and ruin it. "Awesome," he says obnoxiously. "Now that you two have kissed and made up, can we please get back to the curse?"

Dean looks pissed and Cas looks perplexed. "But Dean and I didn't—"

"He's just being a dick, Cas. Ignore him." Dean pointedly glares at Sam, who stares back evenly—if not a little smugly—with his arms crossed over his chest, as if to say _'problem?'_ "But, he has a point; we gotta focus on this love bug thing. Do you know anything about it?"

"Tell me what you already know."

After Dean wastes seven minutes explaining his situation—complete with colorful hand gestures and expletives—it turns out Castiel knows even less than they do.

"Man, angels are supposed to know how to solve shit like this!" Dean complains. "You've been around forever, how do you not know more about this?"

Cas glares at him, and Dean spontaneously decides to dub it his 'wet-cat expression'—it's basically the angel version of Sam's patent bitch face. Then, Cas says "I'm sorry I haven't paid attention to the minutia of a roman goddess's love curse, _Dean,_ I was a little preoccupied with protecting humanity and serving the creator of the universe" and Dean wonders who the hell taught him sarcasm. Castiel exhales loudly and continues, "However, I do know enough to say that Venus is clearly still alive, otherwise the curse would not be active. It is a widely known fact that the death of a goddess or god nullifies whatever spell they've cast in their lifetime."

"So you're saying we have to find and kill Venus—again—in order to destroy this curse?" Sam clarifies.

"In essence. I'm sure there is another method of removing this 'love bug', but since none of the accounts discuss any of them, I'm assuming only the goddess herself knows of the alternatives."

By all means, Dean should be paying one hundred percent attention right now, but his eyes cannot stop drifting towards the angel's messy blue tie, which is twisted at the top and half-hidden beneath the collar of his trench coat. It's just so disorganized. Dean's never been one for perfection, but right now his previously nonexistent OCD is kicking into gear big time.

Sam says something back to Cas with a thoughtful expression, and Cas replies with a head shake. More words are exchanged. Dean catches about half of them.

Dean tries to focus, he really does, but for some reason, Cas's goddamn crooked tie keeps bothering him like a rash, so without another thought, he places one hand on Cas's lapel and the other at the knot of his tie.

—which turns out to be the biggest fucking mistake possible.

Because the moment his fingers brush against the skin-warmed material of Castiel's shirt, a warm tingly sensation shoots through his body like heroin; it's so powerful that it nearly turns his legs to jelly and makes him topple over. Dean can actually _feel _his mind becoming muggy and distant, his body's natural instincts sharpening and bursting forth.

Apparently, the change doesn't show externally, because Cas's face remains the same: calmly looking down at Dean's hands on his chest while he continues speaking to Sam. Dean, on the other hand, can only stare, his mouth agape and his eyes round as dinner plates.

The hot, burning feeling spreads, and his brain becomes soaked with endorphins, dopamine, adrenalin, and every other natural chemical his body has to offer. His fingertips itch with the urge to tug through Cas's hair, graze the swell of his bottom lip, clutch possessively at his narrow hips. He feels like he's going crazy with desire.

But, really: how can anyone blame him? Castiel is a delicious combination of liquid blue eyes, dark, scruffy hair, and a voice that sounds like you could fucking _sandpaper_ something with it, and Dean can't help but want an armful of gorgeous angel right this goddamn second.

"Cas," he breathes, swaying on his feet a little, "Can I hug you?"

Dean allows himself two seconds to appreciate the frankly adorable look of confusion Cas wears in response, before he moves in for the kill; without preamble, Dean leaps forward, hooks his arms underneath Cas's armpits, and pulls him so tightly against his body that he actually lifts the angel a few inches off the ground. With his hands fisted in the back of Castiel's coat and his chin hooked firmly over Castiel's shoulder, Dean sighs. "Man, you smell so good. Like ozone and soap. And clean skin; and sort of like sunshine. Does that have a smell? If it does, this is what it's like."

Cas, to his credit, just stands there and takes it, his body as rigid as a statue. "…Dean?" Cas rumbles after a long (long) moment. Dean doesn't relax his grip, but he does pull back enough to see Cas's face, which, although bemused, is the most lovely sight Dean's ever seen. "Hi, Cas," he says, his heart fluttering in his chest like a love-struck thirteen year old. Even though some distant part of his mind screams that this is not how he should be behaving, another part of him—the part doused in a cocktail of dopamine and love potion—reminds him that Cas is beautiful and powerful and so freaking _hot _that it actually _hurts _not to be touching him at all times_._

Once Dean notes that their faces are mere inches apart, he contemplates the glorious prospect of crushing his mouth to those pink, slightly-chapped lips and kissing the motherfucking hell out of them; but of course Sam—being the total C-blocker that he is—has to interrupt that train of thought by loudly clearing his throat.

Sounding as mortified as a nun who's caught some kids necking in the hallway, Sam says, "You're not gonna start…_going at it_ right now, are you?"

With his eyes still locked unapologetically on Cas's mouth, Dean licks his lips. "Maybe."

"Um, Dean?"

"Yeah, angel?" God, it feels good to say that.

"You're, um, crushing my ribs."

At that, something switches in Dean—his body temperature drops from magma to normal, his heart stops hammering like a drum, and the hormones firing off in his brain abruptly mellow down—and he immediately releases Cas, though he does make sure to keep his hands on the angel's shoulders. "Whoa, uh, sorry, man. I guess I just got a little carried away there. I…I'm good now."

Cas looks disheveled and confused—his trench coat is hanging off of one shoulder and his tie is crumpled—but there are two patches of pink flush high on his cheekbones that speak undeniably of embarrassment. The sight of Cas being so flustered might have made Dean smirk, except, being that he was the one who had been two seconds away from cramming his tongue down the angel's throat, he finds very little humor in the situation.

"That was…the curse I presume?" Cas says after a million years of awkward silence.

Dean rubs the back of his neck and wishes the earth would just swallow him whole. "Uh, yeah. It happens sort of randomly." Then, as an afterthought: "Sorry."

"It's, it's um, fine. It's alright." Cas clears his throat raw and stares at his shoes. "Have you tried calling Bobby yet?"

Relieved at the prospect of a subject change, Dean immediately replies, "We were going to, once we'd done our own research and figured out as much as possible. And…I guess since we've done that, it's time we pay him a visit." He glances at Sam for affirmation.

"Fine," Sam says. "But I'm driving."

Dean's face twists into a scowl and he starts to make an argument, but Sam cuts him off. "Do you really wanna risk driving with that curse looming over your head? What if you see someone on the way there, fall in love, and swerve the car off the road to get to them? Or what if you start crying again because you care about us so much or something, and crash us into a tree on accident? Or what if you—"

"Fine, alright, alright, I get it!" Dean snaps crabbily. "I'm a walking bomb! Got it! Let's just hit the road already, the sooner we figure this shit out the better."

Sam nods and turns on his heel to start packing up their belongings. Dean glances at Cas out of the corner of his idea, noticing with a small amount of satisfaction that the blush is still there. "You coming, Cas?"

"Yes, I'll meet you there lat—"

"No, I mean, are you driving up with us?"

Castiel squints. "Why would I do that, Dean? I have wings, remember?"

Dean isn't sure how to explain—in a manly, dignified manner—that not having Cas within his immediate vicinity makes him feel a little hollow, both from the vestiges of the curse and from the simple fact that he hardly sees the angel anymore and misses him. Unfortunately, there is no convenient phrase that expresses this concisely, so Dean just scuffs his shoes against the floor and clears his throat. "Uh, yeah, never mind, you're right. See you there," he says to the carpet.

And although he really shouldn't be, Dean finds himself extremely disappointed when he glances up and realizes that Cas has already left.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, lovelies, what do you think? What did you love? What did you think could have been better? I just want y'all to know that every piece of feedback is invaluable and it helps immensely with the writing process! **

**I'm not sure when the next update will be, but let's say it'll be sometime during next Sunday. Ish. I can't say for certain, because it all depends on how unbearable my schedule is this upcoming week. *prays that I don't have a million essays and tests in AP classes**

**Anyway, thanks for reading! Until next time, darlings! **

**X0X0 justlikewater **


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